Yes, I’m in my twenties. And no, I’m definitely not ready.

Alex was agonisingly close to finally growing out of her ugly duckling stage and even closer to being able to buy her first a-cup bra. She thought she was going to be a international singing superstar (and this was the days before X Factor and The Voice so that’s saying something) and her parents had just gotten divorced.

She had the BIGGEST crush on a boy called Sam, whom she then made an entire family with on the Sims and had lots and lots of beautiful virtual babies. Her Mum had finally started letting her wear mascara. She was never popular per se but never really an outsider either.

She was just there, really. Waiting for her life to begin.

And now almost ten years later I would like to go back and tell that sweet, innocent prepubescent little girl that she is the biggest fucking idiot of all time.

Because as it turns out, life as an adult (and I use the title adult very, very loosely here) is not how it was all cracked up to be in those Cosmo magazines I read off the rack while my Mum was shopping for roll-ups. Like, at all. Not even a little bit.

I am twenty one years old, and can confidently say I have never felt ‘fresh, fierce and sexy’ whilst I force my lazy ass to gym, or ‘knocked his socks off’ in the bedroom with a grapefruit (I can also say at 21 I have less of an understanding of how in holy hell you would use said grapefruit than I did when I was twelve).

Instead however, I can confidently say I have on several occasions called my Mother and asked her how to use the washing machine. Or how long to cook a pork chop for so I didn’t give myself salmonella poisoning. I have forgotten to wash my stain covered work uniform and then proceeded to wear it the next day drenched in perfume, hoping no one would realise that mouldy smell is in fact, me. I’ve dropped out of not one, but two different university degrees. I have googled how many calories are in two minute noodles. I have gotten so drunk that my own Mother had to shower me like a child.

And you know what? I’m not ashamed of it. Well not completely ashamed anyways. I probably should have known how to use a washing machine. But besides that, why the hell should I be? Being in your twenties is fucking hard.

You’ve just been thrown into this world full of adults who have several years of adulting already under their expensive belts and expected to act as if you’ve got your shit together when quite frankly, you have no god damn clue what’s going on.

And the questions, oh my lord, the questions!

What do you want to do with your life Alex? When are you going back to uni? You don’t seriously want to be a waitress for the rest of your life, do you? How many times do you shit a day? What is the precise function of the shoe horn? When are you moving out?

And guess what? You’re expected to give a well thought out, detailed answer to each and every one of those nauseating questions. And if you don’t… well basically I hope you’re comfortable because boy, are you in for a lecture!

And as much as I just adore being told I need to get my life sorted, and soon, it’s not that bad. Because I know I’m not alone. Thankfully, there’s an entire generation stumbling through the same out-dated pressures of adulthood just like I am.

So that’s why I’ve decided to document my struggles of being twenty and absolutely, positively, determinedly not ready to let all you other twenty somethings that you are not alone in this big bad world of functioning adults.